


AKA That Hero Thing

by onemorethingishouldntdo



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: AU, Dark Humor, F/M, I wrote this but you're reading it so really who's worse, Jessica Kilgrave Hero Team, Kilgrave is a walking trigger, Love/Hate, Mind Control, Non-consent, Trish/Jessica Friendship Forever, rape history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onemorethingishouldntdo/pseuds/onemorethingishouldntdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t want her like this. He wants the Jessica he met all those nights ago, who tossed around the thugs like juggling balls. Or the sweet, open Jessica who roamed Vatican City with him, who screwed him in the pews at St. Peter's. Or even the Jessica in that ghastly hoodie, waving her hands above her head screaming, “Hey, Shit Head.”</p><p>But this Jessica, all fear and self-loathing? It's his least favorite version. He takes it anyway.</p><p>“I love you, Jessie,” he repeats, serious, low. His fingers brush over her soft cheek. “But we both know that I'm not the kind of man to ever give up on you. Let alone by doing something as foolish as confessing to murder.” </p><p>For one blessed moment she lets him feel her, her eyes closed, dark lashes like black daggers against her skin. There’s almost a hint of relief in the line of her mouth. Or disappointment. Either way it's enough to inspire hope. </p><p>Then her hands wrap around his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zhangers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhangers/gifts).



> Inspired by Zhanger's What Wouldn't Jessica Do fic. A series of interconnected drabbles. There may or may not be a plot. Stay tuned.

She brings him Chinese food bathed enough grease to qualify as an oil spill, and when she throws the white-boxes onto the table, wearing those awful ripped jeans, she looks like a homeless member of a lesbian biker gang taking up delivery as a side-job. But none of it matters. They'll iron out the details of her wardrobe over time. Plus, her surliness means that this is real. If she was all smiles, he'd be looking for the sniper again.

So when she summons the servants -- just to needle him he knows -- he offers only a half-barbed quip.

Like him, she always did have a place in heart for strays. One day he’ll get her to admit that.  
  
But not right now. Now it’s only after they get through the song and dance of “are you trying to drug me ”and “no, here let me prove it” that they really settle in. For her, that means slouching like a teenager and attacking her meal with a fork.  
  
He regards her with a mix of horror and fascination. There are so many different nuances to this Jessica, the outfit, the grumpiness, the rage. He wonders how much of this rudeness is because of her misplaced anger at him, and how much is just her natural routine. Did she eat like this with her family too? He bites back a command to have her tell him.  

“So,” she says after she’s shoveled the last forkful of fried rice into her mouth. (She's heartily declined any and all noodles). “If we do this, there are going to be rules.”   
  
“I think you've already put down more than a couple restrictions on me, Jessica.” He taps his chopsticks against the side of his dish before tucking them under his cloth napkin. (Some concessions had to be made to decency.) "What are a few more."   
  
 “First rule. You let them go.”   
  
 Alva and Laurent look up like startled puppies. It’s sickening really, but he doesn’t command them to gouge out their eyes. Yet. “And how can I be sure you’ll stick around?”     
  
“You can’t,” she says through gritted teeth, and he gets her subtext loud and clear.  _We both know that you can control me whenever you want, asshole._  “That’s part of the fun of this.”  
  
_'If this is fun, Jessica, smile,'_ He wants to order. Her pain is etched in the dark bags under her eyes and skittish movements. His poor Jessica, so broken that she'd been convinced he was trying to get her to commit suicide. She’s aged five years in the scant months of their separation.  Really, he should’ve found her sooner.  
  
“I'll give them three weeks severance." 

"Good." She nods. 

But they both know he could hold the whole world hostage if he wanted to. That in fact, he does. But if she's willing to pretend he won't, he's willing too.   
  
Progress.  
  
She barrels forward. “I decide when and where we take cases.”   
  
He holds up his hands. “Of course, fine.” But then he leans in conspiratorially and adds, “Frankly, you’ll be the one doing the moral guiding here, so I think it’s better if you set the lessons anyway, hmm?” He purses his lips, raising his eyebrows.  
  
When they used to dine in bed with croissants and freshly churned cream cheeses, this was a face that would always make her laugh. Once without even prompting.  Now she just rolls her eyes. Humor is hard for her since he's left, he knows. It’s as if all of his painstaking detailed work to bring her back to a happier time has only dredged up her ghosts. He heard her last night, tossing and turning, screaming her brother’s name.

Silence falls over the dining room but for the scraping of Alva and Laurent’s silverware. He regrets promising not to hurt them already. 

“I would ask one thing of you," he says as neutrally as he can, careful not to let his fondness for her show. She can be vicious when she smells blood. And when it comes to her his heart is gushing.     
  
“What?” she asks flatly, staring at her empty plate. Really anywhere but his face.  
  
“One night a week of your time, non-heroing. A chance to help you break out of this fu—"  
  
  “No,” she hisses. Then she snatches her plate off the table, along with the servant's.  
  
“You don’t have to bother with those. That’s what sweet Alva and Laurent are for.” He reaches for her wrist, but she dodges him before he even makes contact.   
  
This time he flinches, her earlier accusation zinging through his skull.   
  
_It’s called rape.  
_

No. No it wasn't. His poor Jessica wouldn’t know happiness if it bit her in her arse. Which it had once. He had. And she had moaned in  _pleasure_.

She stops in the doorway to the living room. “Rule number two of heroism, Kilgrave. Don’t be a prick.”   
  
“I thought you said that was rule number one.”   
  
“Clearly you didn’t get it the first time,” she shouts over her shoulder.  


	2. Chapter 2

The dreams don’t get better, but they do get more focused. She thinks she wakes up at 3am with her brother next to her in bed, sleeping. His warm, dry body presses up against her with all the trust of a small animal. She can even smell him, the bubble-gum shampoo Mom used to wash his hair. He never made it past puberty. 

 

When she actually wakes up at 6am she buries her face in her too-small pillow to stop the scream. He hears it anyway of course. 

 

_Knock. Knock._

 

“Jessica,” he asks in that whiny voice of his. 

 

It seems ridiculous that a simple command from that could make her tear off her clothes like some kind of porn-star. And that just makes her hate herself more. “Go away.” 

 

“I heard a scream.” He ignores her, of course. Because he wouldn’t be fucking Kilgrave if he actually acknowledged another sentient human being’s desires — even hers. 

 

“I was remembering the first time I met you,” she lies and doesn’t feel an once of guilt. “Now fuck off.” 

 

She waits with the pillow clutched to her chest, until she hears his footsteps down the stairs. Only then does she allow herself to cry.   
  
Trish. Fuck. She wants Trish. 

  
But she will never bring Trish here. 

 

If she did, she knew that one day, it’d be Trish she’d have dreams about sleeping next to her. Because that’s what’s happen when you love Jessica Jones. Sooner or later you end up dead and nothing but the star of her nightmares. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the reviews.

Their first act as a “daring do” isn’t very daring. A policeman he commanded to alert them of all local news texts Jessica with a memo about a cat up a tree, and she decides to test him by making him fetch it down.  Driving over the three blocks to the crime scene in his Aston Martin eases the indignity only slightly. As does Jessica ribbing him about how James Bond is a spy not a superhero. At least she recognizes his suaveness. 

 

She tries to keep as much distance between them as possible, but the car is too cramped, and once her elbow actually grazes his accidentally. He can’t help but give her a knowing look at that. From the way her mouth scrunches she does her best not to punch him. Or herself. Sometimes its hard to untangle her hatred of him from her hatred of herself. 

  
When they get to the oak tree the cat has absconded to, he starts to command a small crew of suburbanites to build a human pyramid to go and fetch it. She looks on with crossed arms for about thirty seconds before she springs up and grabs it herself. The cat doesn’t much like her though. It swipes at her with its claws, before diving gracefully into Kilgraves arms. 

 

He almost throws it to the ground — it’s getting some its long white hairs on his black cashmere sweater — but he can see from her smirk that that’s what she expects him to do. So instead he winces and pets it, plastering on a broad smile. “What do you think we should call it? How about…” he searches around, “Carabas.” 

  
“Carrabas? Like the restaurant chain?” 

 

“Jesus. No. Like the fairy-tale Puss in Boots. The imaginary nobleman the cat makes up.”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

 

“To con people? For God’s sakes, I didn’t even having a loving mummy and daddy to read me night-time stories and even I know that.” 

 

“It’s not our cat.” Jessica frowns. “We have to find it’s owner.” 

 

Kilgrave pets its head and it purrs. “I think it likes me.” He squirms until he realizes what this means and shoots Jessica pointed glance. _See, I don’t have to use my power for everything._

 

But then the owner emerges from the tragically ramshackle ranch, a pear-shaped woman with a dress that looks like it’s made half out of cat-hair. “Oats!”

 

She trundles toward them, arms outstretched like he stole her baby. He cradles the cat away from her, and it hisses. As its back curls upward, Kilgrave notices that there are far more bones visible than there should be on its mangy body. And hissing, he thinks, is not the reaction that a cat should have to it’s owner. 

 

_Act how?_  
  


_Suicide?  
_

_Is that why you’ve been torturing me?_  
  


He holds the cat closer to his suit, hairs be damned. It does remind him of her. Pale as a star, and just as remote and unfriendly. Clearly more than a little tortured. Although unlike Jessica, that cat isn’t deluded about the true source of its pain. He had fed Jessica.

 

“This is not your cat,” he says firmly to the woman. 

 

“What are you doing?” Jessica asks. 

 

Fine. “You,” he points at the woman. “Tell me how often did you feed your animal.” 

 

“When I remembered,” she said blankly. “Now—“ 

 

“Ah, ah, ah. How often?” 

 

“He can hunt for himself,” the woman says bitterly, hands still outstretched like a kid begging for a toy. 

 

“No,” Kilgrave said sternly. “He can’t. That’s why he’s a pet. And he’s not your pet anymore.” 

 

The woman shakes her head. “I’m sorry what was I saying…” 

  
“No, now leave.” He shoes her away with a toss of his hand, before focusing back on the cat. Oates seems like the wrong name for a majestic creature. It’s eyes are slits of yellow, angry fire, but not for him. It purrs, and he can feel the sound vibrate underneath his hand.  He wonders how long until he will feel her underneath him purring again.

 

This animal substitute isn’t quite the same.  But it is rather soft. 

 

“You can’t just take someone’s cat,” Jessica says, although she sounds more sour than murderous, so he knows she’s not actually upset with him. 

 

He smiles cheekily. “Well bully for you, because I just did. Now. What should we name it. Maybe it could be our mascot.” He played with the creatures little paws, waving them back and forth at Jessica trying to get her to smile.  

 

“Shit,” she swears underneath her. “You really are determined to be a super-villain.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“White cat, crazy car, stealing people’s pets…” she shakes her head. 

 

“Please don’t play dumb with me, Jessica. Weboth know this cat is not properly taken care of.” 

 

“Like you’ll give it a better home.” 

 

He jostles the cat to his other shoulder and bridges the distance between them. She looks at him as if he’s holding a bomb. “I’m thinking His Sir Carabas, unless you have a better idea?” 

 

Once she names it, it will be something that’s theirs. Not his, not hers. Theirs. He know its a subtle bit of trickery, but she’s stolen all of his other methods from him. He has to resort to these pedestrian tactics. Its embarrassing really. See what I do for you, my love. 

 

“Holy fuck. Fine.” Her nose wrinkles. “Call it Murdercorpse.” 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..... You know how last chapter was almost sort of fluffy. 
> 
> This is the opposite. It contains descriptions of rape. Suicide. Depression. The whole fucking cocktail. So please, if you think you might be triggered well, find another ship first off, but second off, don't read this. If I did it right, it will hurt.

 

It’s the cat that does it. The way he cradles it. The way he smiles at it. How his long fingers trail through its hair so gently, but his eyes never leave hers. They’re a paralyzing mixture of reptilian coldness and a new, hesitant thing. _Yearning_ , he called it at the police station. She refuses to call it anything.  If she has to acknowledge its existence, she will slit her throat with the jagged edge of a broken wine bottle. 

 So, in an effort to be immune to whatever the fuck he is, she spits out her sarcasm, ties her sneakers tight enough to make her toes hurt and tells herself the cat really was in trouble. If, no, _when_ he fucks up and forgets about the animal or _ever_ tries to hurt it,  she'll take it to a real shelter. She keeps waiting for him to torture it or throw it out a window, but he keeps the fucking thing on his lap the entire drive home. Then he carries it in his arms, not biting out a single, peevish command even when it gets cat hair all over his sweater. 

He does not get to do this. He does not get to pretend that he's different. 

She finds herself saying no to dinner and rushing up her bedroom.  As she presses her back against the door, she practices breathing again. In and out. Then she practices not vomiting. Once she gets that down she decides to complicate things by fishing out a stolen half-bottle of Pinot Noir from her sock drawer. He had spent a lot of time talking about where it’s from (its  _terroir),_  but she really only cares about where it’s going, (down her throat), and where it will take her (away from him.) 

 She swigs it in a single gulp. 

 See, superpowers. 

 Then she tucks herself in and forces herself to go to sleep, but by the time the nightmares start, she really wish she hadn’t. 

 They’re about him. Unlike her other dreams she knows it’s not real as it’s happening, which is better. But she also knows that this isn’t so much a dream as a memory, which is worse. 

She’s naked, like he liked to keep her, tangled up in sheets with a high enough thread-count to feel invisible. Par the course for Florence, the windows are open and screenless, letting a cool breeze murmur through the curtains, even though the red brick streets below are like an oven slowly roasting the hordes of tourists to a crisp. In the distance the silver dome of the Duomo rises up into a cloudless sky. 

 He hasn’t commanded her do anything but lie still while he arranges lunch. Although, he’s been very specific about how. Turn your cheek here, let your dark hair lie there, and smile, Jessica. Smile, like you’ve got a secret only I know. She obeys perfectly. Her life is a movie on pause, while he micromanages the poor chef pressed into preparing todays pasta. 

 When he finishes, he brings two plates to bed, humming with pride.  “Look what I made us. Sit up, now.  Doesn't it looks delicious?" 

 It does. Shaved pecorino dusts the Tagliatelle and morsels of dark wild-boar meat nestle in the curves of the noodles. But Jessica's not hungry, and when she doesn't pick up her fork, he feeds her himself, twirling the pasta around the fork with delight. 

 After he commands her to swallow he asks “What did you think of the meal, Jessica?” 

 “I ate it,” she says. 

  “Yes, I know that. I made sure of that. But what did you think?” 

 She opens her mouth, but has nothing to say. It’s harder and harder to form opinions when she never gets to act on them anymore. Easier just to let herself be a passenger in her own body.  It’s not until his finger catches the tear rolling down her cheek that she realizes she’s crying.

“Oh, Jessica,” he hemms and haws. He takes the plates away from both of them and puts them on the side-table. “You know how I feel about these displays. But come here, let me hold you. I’ll make you feel better.”

  _He’ll make you feel better._

 A cloying emptiness crawls through her limbs, leaving her floaty as the husk of a falling leaf. But even that sensation isn't resistance, because he told her to feel better, and the closest she can get to feeling better with him is feeling nothing at all.

 Once she goes limp he fucks her. Soft and slow. She’s always hated "making love", with anyone, but with him it's fucking torture.  But he likes treating her as if she’s breakable.  Which at this point is only a little wrong, when he finishes and lies back against the bed, sighing in content, she stays where he left her. Broken. Nothing.   
  
He doesn’t notice. If he did he wouldn’t care. She thinks it’s fitting that his name is Kilgrave, because what he's doing to her isn't so much rape as murder. So when he commands her to curl up in a ball and let him press his back up against hers and whisper term after term of endearment, she imagines murdering him back. Her favorite scenario is yanking out his tongue and stuffing it down his throat until he chokes.

She doesn’t think of Trish in moments like these, she saves those for when he’s left her alone. Jessica knows what would happen if he ever asked her what she was thinking about and she told him Trish. 

It does not end with Trish alive. 

So her hatred is the only thing she’s got to hold onto. Well, the only _good, clean_ thing. There are other things. Darker hopes. Most days she’s gotten good at not thinking about them. 

“I love you, Jessica Jones,” he murmurs on her neck. “Now go to sleep.” He's more than halfway there himself. 

 “Liar,” she hisses, the words mumbled by her numb, drowsy lips. “You fucking dirty cunt of a liar.” 

 He doesn’t roll over or wake up. So she keeps going. She can’t stop. Today is not going to be one of the most days. There’s this _other thing_ burning in her chest, bubbling away the numbness until her whole body is raw and aching. It doesn’t come often, but when it does it hurts. 

 Oh God, it hurts so much. 

 “You don't love me,” she whispers. "You'd rather kill every part of what makes me who I am than even acknowledge my existence as anything other than a mirror for your narcissistic pathetic self." Her body feels closed and small and her throat is no exception. The words barely escape her wind-pipe, and thousands more stay clogged in her brain. 

  _He doesn’t love you, because no one can. No one should. He’ll never really see you. He’ll never understand what he’s done. He’ll never say he’s sorry. He’ll never let you go. He’ll never love anyone. He’ll never love you._

 And then the _coupe de fucking grace_ as he would say, the truth festering, deep, deep below the numbness and the rage and the loss.

  _You wish he could._

 When she wakes up, she doesn’t scream. She finds her phone with shaking fingers and she dials the only number left she knows by heart. It rings once. 

 “Jessica?” 

 Trish’s voice is everything. Jessica collapses back in her bed and presses her phone so hard against her ear it’s going to leave a red mark.

 “Jessica, are you there?” 

  _Please tell me I’m okay, Trish._  

 “Talk to me, Jessica,” Worry, anger, annoyance and all the mundane, real feelings that friends have color Trish’s familiar plea. Jessica feels like a thief, taking them from Trish, but at this point she’s pretty sure that if she doesn’t she will kill herself. And maybe that justifies the risk. 

“Trish,” she breathes.

 “Jess. What’s going on?” 

 “I’m still with him.” 

 “You need to come see me,” Trish says firmly. 

 “I need to do a lot of shit.” Simple things are hard and breathing is one them, but after a beat Jessica manages. “Simpson was right, I should kill him. I know I should. I should forget Hope and this fucking superhero bullshit. Sometimes people can't be saved.” 

“We'll figure out a way to get Hope out.”

  _I'm not just talking about her._ "We will," Jessica agrees instead.  

 She stares up at the old Nirvana poster, the smilie face with the eyes x-ed out.

 "I'll make him pay for everything he's done one way or another. You--" Jessica begins hurriedly and keeps on going even though she feels embarrassed for some reason, "you don't have to be involved in this anymore Trish. Catching him and tracking him down is one thing. Having him actually be in my life, that's fucked up shit you didn't sign up for." 

 Three seconds of silence later, and Jessica's sure Trish has finally hung up. It's a relief for Trish to abandon her, actually. It’s what she’s been expecting since the moment Trish first hugged her in the bathroom after she told off her mother for the first time. Beautiful, tv-star Trish is not supposed to be friends with an grungy asshole like her. 

“I love you, Jessica,” Trish says simply. "I've signed up for all of it." 

“It’s not fair to you, to deal with this —“ 

“I don't care,” Trish says. 

 Jessica gives a strangled laugh and actually smiles. But the laugh doesn’t last long. “What should I do?” 

 “Run away with me on the network jet to Guam.” 

 Jessica rephrases. “What can I do? ” 

 “Keep calling me,” Trish says calmly. "Just do that, okay?" 

This time Jessica's the one that lets the silence hang. Her finger slides over the screen to the end-call button, but she doesn't press it. Instead she wipes away at her dry, tired eyes and says the closest she can come to 'I love you' right now, "O-okay." 


	5. Chapter 5

She never gets old Jessica Jones. Everything about her should be intolerable, her snark, her wardrobe, her consistent lack of gratitude, even her footfalls are heavy as she stomps down the stairs. She walks like she’s trying to attack the world with her feet. But he knows who she's really pissed off at. He’s not delusional. His sodding heart, well, that’s another story.

Lounging on the couch with his feet thrown on the coffee table, he watches her out of the edge of his eye.

She stops on the bottom step, adjusting the same leather jacket she’s worn for the past three days. Chances are good she slept in it too. She can’t tell he’s looking, because her shoulders are too loose and there is certain softness in her face she'd never let him see. With him she is only high contrast and sharp edges, but he know she's got shades, complications. Unlike Patsy, Jessica wasn't born a hero, she's trying of course, trying so hard, there's a tension that never leaves her long limbs, but she's not quite there yet. 

 _That's_ what makes her beautiful. 

And very, very dangerous. 

She clears her throat and takes the final step down.  
  
He turns and smiles politely. “Jessica, you’re up, and before 11, good work. Shall I order us some breakfast?”

“I’m fine."

He shakes his head and pulls down his feet, readying to stand. “You need calories if we’re going to be hero-ing today.” And fresh clothes. But he bites back that last bit.

“We’re not doing that today," she says, cheery as a morgue. 

“Oh, and what’s on the agenda then? Not more moping around here, I hope?” He flips the channel to the news, hoping for some inspirational murder or hostage situation to rear its head again. She doesn't join him on the couch. Distance it is.

She's unusually still, ratty gloved hands at her side. Calm, even. “You need to confess to the murder of Hope Schlottman’s parents.”

His finger slips onto the power-button, pressing it and accidentally turning the TV off. “Not sure I quite caught that.”

“You heard me the first time.”

He sighs, placing the remote gently on the coffee-table, taking his time to turn to stand and face her. An unfamiliar metallic tang itches on his tongue. Sometimes he forgets what fear feels like, but Jessica always helps him remember. Thankfully, Hank lurks in the dining room beyond. He should be able to slow her down at least. And if not there are other ways. 

He steps closer to her. It's always like this with Jessica, if he approaches in small enough increments maybe she won't notice. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, looking totally unconcerned. Almost numb.   
  
“I noticed last night a half-bottle of my — excuse me our — pinot noir has gone missing. How much have you had today already?” he asks carefully.   

“Not enough.”  
  
"Right, well then. If it's not alcoholic delusions, I'm curious what makes you think I'd abandon you just for the luxury of living out the rest of my life in a cell?" He pretends to wander just a little bit to the left, as if he's just pacing to think, instead of circling inward. 

She doesn’t flinch. Not an apology or God forbid a smile, but for now, he’ll take not flinching. She does glance upward though, her eyes catching on one of the many family portraits lining the stairwell. Little Phillip giving her inspiration no doubt. “You say you love me, that you want to be better. This would be proof.”   
  
Just to hear her say the word love is a shock to his senses. His smirk falls, and something in his chest twists, aches.  _Oh, Jessica. You clever, dangerous girl._

"Proof. I've made you this house, saved you at the police-station, tried to re-weave the very fabric of my moral fiber." One more step, and suddenly they’re the closest they’ve been since the police station. Then she looked like she was about to throw up, now she looks like she already has, all hollow and trembling.

He doesn’t want her like this. He wants the Jessica he met all those nights ago, who tossed around the thugs like juggling balls. Or the sweet and open Jessica who roamed Vatican City with him, who screwed him the pews at St. Peter's. Or even the Jessica in that ghastly hoodie, waving her hands above her head screaming, “Hey, Shit Head.”

But this Jessica, all fear and self-loathing? It's his least favorite version. He takes it anyway.

“I love you, Jessie,” he repeats, serious, low. His fingers brush over her soft cheek. “But we both know that I'm not the kind of man to ever give up on you. Let alone by doing something as foolish as confessing to murder.”

For one blessed moment she lets him feel her, her eyes closed, dark lashes like black daggers against her skin. There’s almost a hint of relief in the line of her mouth. Or disappointment. Either way it's enough to give him hope. Then her hands wrap around his neck.

“You never fucking listen to me, do you?"

_Slam._

 

  
She pins him to the wall in a graceful throw so hard there's a lag between the impact and the radiations of pain pulsing in his spine.  "What are -- " 

"I told you,” she rasps, “not to touch me or call me that.” Her hand slides down from his neck to his shoulder and the other pulls at his collar. There's a sick joy in her eyes that may as well be a reflection of his own when he commands some nothing to slit their own throat. His poor darling girl. Confused. So determined to be unhappy she gains pleasure in hurting the only man who wants to end her misery.   
  
“Jessica.”   
  
A shadow looms in the door behind her. Hank. He shakes his head.

This wins him no points from Jessica, she just hauls him up higher. “You are a murderer and a rapist. You raped me.”

The word hits him with less force the second time. He knows better than to tell her its not true. There's no point.  
  
“I—“ he gasps, choked by her hold, “went about things the wrong way in the past. It's clear you feel hurt in a way I never intended. But now with your guidance, I'll improve. Without it though...”

“My guidance?” She shakes her head brutally. “Fuck you to pin this on me, innocent people were — ”

“Were harmed, yes, yes, I know. But that’s why I’m here,” he continues on. “Doing this hero thing. I’m trying to change, aren’t I?”

Her hand falls on his shoulder, pleasant for a moment, until she starts to pull.

“Boody hell!” he cries. 

“Do it,” she hisses. “Aren’t you going to tell Hank to kill me, or to kill himself?”

“And ruin this delicious foreplay?” He winces, baring his teeth more than smiling. It feels like she’s dislocating his shoulder, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Not when she’s touching him of her own free will.

 She blanches, but doesn’t let him go. “I'll never choose you. The best you can ever hope for is me never thinking of you again while you rot away in priso.”

“And the hero thing?”

“You don’t just want the hero thing. You want more. And when you find out you’ll never get it, you’ll kill me or whoever else is convenient. This is me saving time.”

God, he loves how well she knows him. How well she sees him. Although it does make things inconvenient. “As much as I admire your directness, Jessica. I think you’re underestimating my patience.”  
  
She twists his shoulder not just away from his joint, but back.

“Ah, bloody—“ He grits his jaw to stop himself from screaming. He won't be weak in front of her. Not more than he already has been. 

Jessica eyes are dull with grim satisfaction. “What’s it going to be?”

“Death then, I suppose.” He inhales a long, smooth breath, trying to keep from trembling. What his little Jessie hasn't counted on is that he knows her just as well as she knows him. He knows this attack is just a ploy. She'll never kill him. Not if he keeps faith in heroic nature. If he lets her pretend. “Although we both know how little your conscience needs another life pressing down on it.”

  “And what’s to say I just won’t inject you and kidnap you again?”

 The blood roaring in his ears is so loud, he can barely hear himself, “You haven’t left the house without me. You don’t have any needles, and Hank’s been ordered to kill you and then himself if you try to take me from the premises,” Kilgrave lies smoothly. “Right, Hank?”

“Right,” Hank grunts.

Good man. He'd really underestimated how much loyalty money alone could buy.

“And hurting you, how about that?”   Every word she utters stinks of booze, although her attacks are too precise for her to be drunk. This is Jessica in 100% control. It's undeniably sexy.

“Is that what a hero would do, Jessica? Beat up the villain after he surrenders? For no reason?” Her hand just rests on his shoulder, not pulling any further. He’d swear he can feel her fingertips through his clothes and just that is enough to make him half-hard. He fights it. If she sees how much this is turning him on, she might actually kill him. 

“You haven’t surrendered,” she hisses.

He smiles sadly, glad that his arms are pinned behind his back, knowing if they weren’t he'd certainly gently tilt her face back to meet his. “No, I suppose I haven’t. I—“

But before he can get out another declaration she drops him, sending him plummeting to the floor with a smash almost as violent as the one that hurtled him up against the wall. Rubbing his shoulder to, he looks about, half expecting an intruder as the explanation for his freedom. But no, just his Jessica. She's even more whimsical than he is. In a sour sort of way.

 She scowls down at him, hands on her hips. All that’s missing is the costume and the cape waving behind her while she monologues about the importance of justice.

“You seem to know what a hero should do well enough on your own, Kilgrave.” She prowls over to the door, thinking she's leaving.

"Are you really ready to gamble that I will?" he shouts after her. "Let’s not forget that it’s not just sweet little nobodies I can control. Patsy —“

“Shut up.” She grips the frame of the door so hard the wood starts to split. And after all the work he did on this house!  But at least she doesn’t turn the knob. He has her. He always had. Always will. She just needs times to come to term with it on her own. 

“Why don’t you come back inside for a while, Jessica? Take a bath. Read a book. Then when you’re ready we can sit down and discuss how to have Hope released, and our plan of attack for our next feat of heroism.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. His shoulder aches, burns, but the rest of him feels a very real fear in the pit of his gut. It’s surprisingly strong. Stronger even than when she first threw him against the wall. She can’t leave. She can’t. If he has to live alone in this world without her, without someone fucking interesting and whole...  Well, he's never really tried to make the world suffer before. His cruelty has been incidental. If she leaves him, he's almost certain it will become his purpose.  

He's not a monster. He doesn't want that.   
  
"Please, Jessica." 

Then, finally, for God’s sake finally, she lets go of the doorframe. It wheezes.  Without another word she stomps back up the staircase. Her only reply a few beats later is the slamming of her bedroom door.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

She wakes up at 2am, her body damp, shitty sheets plastered against her face. There's a pain in her side that she thinks might be her kidneys. The fifth half-bottle of pinot noir may have been uncalled for. Through the door she can hear someone whimpering, and for the first time it’s not her. 

 

She pushes open the door and steps tentatively out into the hallway. The sound isn’t coming from Phillip’s room. Thank fuck.  Is Kilgrave fucking sleep whining?  Her heart still thuds as she walks down the stairs and the mewling gets louder, though. 

   
But no. It’s Murdercorpse, meowoing and scratching at the front-door, wanting to be let out. 

  
Jessica sighs. She knows exactly zero about pets, but even she can tell that Mudercorpse hasn’t been happy cooped up. Although the food’s doing the animal good, Kilgrave doesn’t seem to understand that Murdercorpse is an outdoors cat. Or care.   To be honest, Jessica’s kind of surprised she’s noticed. She’s never really liked cats, even though Trish says that she should, that they share the same temperament. But Trish loves neat categories for things. Meyers-Briggs. Cat or Dog? Even astrology signs.   

The thought of Trish makes her smile now at least, instead of causing another pang of guilt. Yeah, Kilgrave had threatened her after their last conversation, but Trish is tough. She had survived Simpson. After her first nightmate from Kilgrave, she had _saved_ Jessica. Plus, Jessica realized something else after she sat alone in her bedroom deconstructing her failed attempt to free Hope.

 Kilgrave trusted her. 

 Not a little.  A lot. With his life. 

 She had been so focused being angry at herself for not being able to kill him, she had missed the part where he’d almost let her. He’d even look aroused, the sick psycho, when she’d pinned him up against the wall. He wanted her. So if, or maybe when, she needed to end him she could do it, and he’d be so blinded by the stars in his eyes he wouldn’t even see it coming. 

 Murdercorpse’s whining is getting loud enough that she’s worried he might hear. She opens the door up a crack with her foot. A cool breeze stings her cheek. She could slip out right now, into the night and probably get to Trish before he puts whatever his plan is into action. She’s almost certain he doesn’t have snipers in place or anything. No. He’s been off his game lately around her. She can tell. 

 

She kneels down and runs her hand through the cat’s moon-white fur. It really is soft in her hands; she gets why Kilgrave likes it. The cat turns and hisses at her, its green eyes glinting. 

 

Jessica draws back. “Well fuck you, too.” 

 

The cat ignores her and slinks out into the night without even a purr of thanks for its freedom. 

 

She doesn’t follow. 

  
  
No. 

 

_ It’s time to set aside your own fucking demons, Jones, and do what you came here to do.  _

 

Trick the devil into saving the world. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The next day they begin their hero-ing for real. 

 

And this one’s a classic — even better than the hostage crisis: train derailment. Luckily he and Jessica are already in the city for lunch at a dumpy sandwich joint of Jessica’s choosing, discussing next steps (no mention of Hope Schlottman yet, Jessica’s taking her time with that), when he notices the tweet go out under hashtag #HeroesWanted. The lack of irony in this city never fails to astound him.

 

And whadda ya know, it’s only a few blocks away. 

 

Kilgrave doesn’t realize how _long_  a city block is until he's trying to sprint down one following Jessica. 

 

Jessica, by the way,isn't so much running as she is hurtling in bounds big enough that there’s a sickening crunch each time she lands. It can’t be pleasant.  Sympathetic ache shoots through his hamstrings. Well, not all sympathy, running after her has made him so out of breath the edges of his vision are beginning to darken. 

 

He makes a note to hire a personal trainer as he follows her down into the underbelly of the New York subway.The smell of piss hits him first, and then the temperature. It’s warm and damp as a French cheese cave. The graffiti covering the grubby tiles on either side turns to a blur as he pushes through that with a blasé if breathless, “Let me through.”  Then it’s down yet another set of flattened-newspaper covered stairs into the echoing tunnels below. He’s long lost sight of Jessica, but that’s all right. All he has to do is follow the screams. When he reaches the bottom he realizes what’s got everyone in such a tiff. 

 

There's a train on its side, off the tracks. It's not on fire or anything, just a little crooked, but people are panicking as if it is. It probably as something to do with the small child stuck underneath it. Kilgrave can’t see him, but the brat is wailing so loudly he doesn’t have to. Mommy this mommy that. 

 

Oh, come on. It's not like he's actually hurt, with the way the train fell he’s more trapped than anything else. Kilgrave hates screaming kids.Closets are the best place for them usually. 

 

_Stop, please. I don't want it._

 

_Now, Kevin, we talked about this. You'd die? Is that what you want?_

 

_Yes. I hate you!I wish you'd go away forever and leave me alone._

 

"What is the plan here, Jessica?" As he breaks through the crowd to the lip of the track and he stops in shock.

 Now he understands why people are so agitated. There's a second train, coming from the other direction; its breaks are screaming in a faint enough whine to indicate that it's got a couple of minutes before it arrives. But it's clear it won't be stopping either. Jessica has no plan but suicide apparently, because she's jumped onto the tracks and is trying to lift the train herself. 

 His heart throbs in his chest, and not just from the running. 

She won't be strong enough. He tested every aspect of her power when he first found her all those nights ago. Just like Hope, he made her jump and jump and jump and lift and lift. This is beyond their limit.   
  
“Jessica!” he screams. He does not yell stop, and not just because he doesn’t want her to find out he can’t control her anymore. He doesn’t want to admit the truth to himself: she’s going to die and he can do _nothing._

 For a moment he is frozen, just watching the lights hurtle toward her. All of this effort to get her again, and in five minutes or less she'll be gone. He'll never get to touch her. To kiss her. To see her smile for him. She'll never understand how he feels. She is such a selfish bitch sometimes, it would never occur to her how it might affect him if she died. Or worse, she'd delight in hurting him. 

 Her hard edges  should make him love her less, or make him realize that he was only in love with who he thought she had been. That's what he hopes for.  Instead, it just makes it worse. She is so beautiful, her silhouette lit up by the incoming train, her bright hazel eyes wild and furious as she digs her hand under the car and tries to lift it. He's never wanted anything more before in his life. 

 His quick mind flits through scenarios where he saves her. He could order the crowd to try and tackle her down, or to kill themselves if she doesn't leave the boy alone, or any of number of things that would alter forever the nature of their continued partnership. But he doesn't. He can't. Not yet. 

  She actually budges the train a bit, which is very impressive. It bothers him less than he realizes that Jessica Jones is stronger under her own command than she ever was under his. The wind from the train blows through her hair and she's grunting. 

 He will not let her die just so she can play at being the whole world’s bloody savior. She is his first. And the world can only have her if he lets them. 

 Someone next to him shouts, "Get up out of there, lady, what are you crazy?" 

 He bristles. Such is the reward for doing the right thing. This moron is too much of a coward to ever go in there himself. A slow smile dawns over his lips, along with the solution. 

 "Join her," he shouts. "All of you. Help her lift the train. Now." 

Mobs are a bit harder to control, but he repeats the command moving through the crowd, and they begin to pour over the edge into the tracks.

 Jessica doesn't notice at first, she's so intent on her task, but eventually as enough people come to actually make a difference, and the train lifts, she realizes. The child scrambles out from under it, amazingly not crushed, and otherwise unharmed. Jessica doesn't even notice, she's too busy shrieking at him,  "What are you doing? Tell them to get off the tracks! They're going to be killed!" 

 "And you aren't?" he shoots back. "Get off the tracks," he says flatly. Certainly with less enthusiasm than Jessica would like. "Quickly." 

 They don't quite move fast enough, and Jessica helps by picking them up by the scruffs of their neck and tosses them back over the edge the way she would pick up laundry. If she ever did that. Worse, the train is still coming and she's still on the bloody tracks. For God's sake, this woman is impossible. 

 "Quicker," he yells, for real this time. But there are too many of them, and he's too far away. There's only one option. 

 He looks skyward closes his eyes and jumps into the fray himself. He lands on his knees which hurts, and the light is much brighter down here as well. He shields his eyes with his face. Less than a minute left now probably. "Get out of here you sodding idiots!" 

 That has the intended effect, and they scurry back up the walls and onto the platform. Most of them are strong adults and tall enough to jump back up it with only a little scrambling. The kid unfortunately is scrambling at it like he's never so much as climbed a tree before. Christ. 

 “Mom!” the brat screams. 

 He rolls his eyes, how is he the only one noticing this? “You,” he taps a lug on the shoulder, “grab this thing” he gestures messily to the boy, “and haul him up there.” 

 The man looks at him, bewildered, then down at the kid and before tucking the tyke under his arm like a jug of milk and scrambling up one-armed. Soon there’s only him and Jessica left on the tracks. He could’ve climbed up himself, but he won’t leave her behind. 

 “Jessica. Are you planning on committing suicide?”

She stares at him gaped mouth. “Fifty people. You almost murdered fifty people.” 

 “But I didn’t. Now let’s get the bloody hell out of here before we’re pancaked by a train, hmm?” 

She shakes her head, nods and in a single bound springs up onto the platform. Leaving him behind of course. He reaches up to try and haul himself back up onto the tracks, but his arm muscles are disturbingly weak, and the edge of the platform much taller than he had reckoned initially. 

 “Grab my hand, asshole.” 

 There, a pale hand against the concrete clad in fingerless gloves, ten wiggling fingers. His heart leaps in his chest. Pathetic really. He grabs it and she yanks him up, hard and fast enough to dislocate his already tender shoulder. 

 He lands on one knee, just as there’s a terrible crash behind him. The screeching of metal bending metal is like lightening to the thunderous shockwave of the collision, a rocking force that makes the ground shake under his already trembling fingers. 

 He laughs. 

 Who would’ve known that it could be just exciting to work with Jessica Jones as it was to work against her? Just kidding. He always knew. 

 The terrified citizenry has a bit of a different response. They’re hugging each other, crying, praying, shouting, whatever people are supposed to do when they’ve barely escaped with their lives. Prats, the lot of them. Barely more significant than extras in a movie until he made them more. 

 Jessica has her arms crossed and his glaring at him as if this is all his fault. “What the fuck were you thinking?" 

“I was letting them be heroes! Inspiring bravery.” He stands up and brushes the grime of the subway off of his suit. Perhaps he does need a different outfit for hero-ing. 

He eyes Jessica critically and notes that her already beaten up jeans have ripped on both shins. Her hands are caked in grease from trying to lift the train, and red with blood. Something sharp had nicked her slicing through the puny faux-leather gloves. Her fashion wasn't just hideous it was also a hazard to her health.   
  
“It’s not bravery if they didn’t choose it. Then it’s just sacrifice.” 

 “And how was what you were doing any different?” 

 “Because I chose it.” 

 “We both know you couldn’t have lifted that train on your own.” 

 “I was close.” 

 “Close is not the same as “can." He shook his head. “You would’ve died, Jessica, if I hadn’t helped you. A sacrifice is exactly what you would’ve been.”

“Well, I would’ve been a willing one. So I guess that makes me more of a martyr.” She pivots on her rough, black-booted heel and tears her way through the crowd, not so much fast as violent, shoving anyone unwise enough to block her path in the other direction. 

“Out of my way,” he says dryly. “Oh,” he shouts over his shoulder. “Tell the police you saw nothing and if anyone took any footage or pictures delete them.” 

 The crowd ripples behind him, and he knows he probably didn’t get everyone. But it should be enough. 

 Jessica’s already vaulting over the ticket-turny thing (he knows it has a name, but since he’s only ever seen it in movies there’s been no point to learning it.) It’s not until a half a block later, outside that he finally catches up with her again. 

 “I would lecture you again about what it would do to me if you die, but clearly that hasn’t gotten through,” he wheezes out of breath. 

 “Telling me killing myself would piss you off is only making a case for it.” 

 “Well,” he sucks at his teeth, “while I’m glad that I’m important to you enough to make you want to kill yourself just to annoy me, I’d really rather you not **_die_** out of some childish, misplaced desire for revenge.” 

 She hunches her shoulders and thrusts her no-doubt bloody hands into her pockets still speed-walking down the street. “Fifty people.” 

 He rolls his eyes. “So we're still on that, are we? No one was hurt.” 

 “Would you have minded if someone was?” 

 “No, of course not,” he says flippantly. “Did you really expect me to care about anyone other than you?” 

 “No,” she says through a mouth almost sewn shut with a scowl. “And you don’t care about me.” 

 He stops, eyes wide, hands held up flat in recrimination. “I don’t car —  For God’s sake, I jumped in front of moving train — quite literally — for you, Jessica Jones!”

 “You’re obsessed with me. That’s different than actually caring.” She, of course, keeps on walking. 

 He has to stumble to catch up. All of this is getting rather old. “Block her path,” he commands with a lazy wave of his hand to a gaggle of teen girls sipping on some sugary caffeinated beverage. They blink, confused, but stop all the same, interlocked arms forming a barricade against Jessica. 

 She sighs vehemently, but faces him all the same, affectation flat with annoyance. “Let them go.” 

 “Will you stay put?”

 She just tilts her head at him, in that “do something terrible and prove me right” way, she so loves. 

 But he’s not giving in this time. He’s given into her far far too much already. If he had set ground-rules before their little expedition, maybe she wouldn’t have jumped in front of a moving train with no solid plan. 

 “Should I have them poke their eyes out with straws, or choke on their own fingers, Jessica?”

 There is a little bit of shock in her features, fear hidden behind her narrowed eyes. He doesn’t like it per-se, but it is a relief. When she’s afraid of him, at least she actually _listens._  At least he has some modicum of control. And when it comes to this matter he’ll demand her full attention.

 “Will you come here and talk to me?” he asks, careful to phrase it as a question.  

 “Fine.” Not sparing a glance back for the teen-stop-Jessica-team, she clomps over to him, then raises an eyebrow. 

 “You’re free to go. Tell no one about us,” he saysto the girls who scurry away immediately. “And for God’s sakes stop fueling this country’s obsession with pumpkin flavored sugar smoothies disguised as caffeine.” 

 “What do you want?” Jessica asks. 

If he closes his eyes and wishes very hard, he can almost pretend the note of huskyness in her voice is out of desire and not anger. How many times had he commanded her to do exactly as he asked? Thousands. But in their months of courtship, she had never had to ask what _he_ wanted before. It is sinful coming from her full lips. 

 He inhales sharply and looks out to the street, the teeming masses bustling about in their cars, talking on their cellphones, caring for nothing and no-one but themselves. Why Jessica cares about them he’ll never know. Even if he saves a million of them. 

 “I want,” he says plainly, “for you behave sensibly.” 

 "You have no concept of sensible, so not going to happen.” 

“By sensibly I mean at least make an effort of communicating with me before you decide to put your life in danger. It’s hard to be a daring duo when your sole goal seems to be suicide just to tick me off.” 

 “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Jessica, is what I’m asking really so unreasonable?” 

 Maybe it’s something about the gray cloud-marbled sky above of them, or the stench of the city rising, or the way the wind rushes through her hair, sending it blowing across her face, obscuring her eyes. But for the first moment, he’s having the hardest time reading her. It’s as if there’s suddenly a different woman standing in front of him. It’s odd to not be able to command her to simply tell him exactly what she’s thinking. 

 He can guess. But pinning her down reminds him of that old tale of the cat in the box. How you never knew how it was alive or dead until you take it out. Quantum mechanics or some shite. Jessica is like that. And now, he’s afraid he’ll never be able to open her box again. 

 She’ll never let him. Not unless he cuts her open with a knife. Metaphorically. 

 He really doesn’t want to have to do either. So much better if it all happens civilly. Naturally. 

 “On one condition.” 

 Of course. It wouldn’t be Jessica without her trying to take something. Never grateful. All me, me, me. But that’s all right. He understands the impulse. He is that way with everyone else but her. 

 “I’m listening.” 

 “You don’t put innocent people in danger. Use your powers on the bad-guys fine. But not bystanders. Not victims.” 

Victim. He hates that word when she uses it, because she will never see the truth. She will never understand that he is the true one suffering in all of this. Hit by a bus, left to die, unable to interact, to have the one thing he really wants. She has no conception how easy it is to claim saving one’s life as the excuse for the ultimate evil. 

  _We’re doing this for your own good, Kevin._

  _It hurts! I don’t want it anymore._

  _You’ll die—_

  _I don’t care! I don’t care! Why don’t you ever listen to me?_

  _Just be a good boy, Kevin. Eric doesn’t cry when he goes in the sin-bin. He’d never gotten so good if he didn’t. Sometimes life hurts. And you have to be brave. Remember how much we love you, sweetheart. And once this is done we’ll take you back to your nice bedroom and you can have all the ice-cream you like._

  _I don’t want it then. I don’t —_

  _Stay still, darling. Just one more little pinch. I’m sorry. I’m making you better._

 He shakes his head, but the memory lingers, as it always does. Funny, how the moments when he’s out of control seem to carve themselves permanently on his synapses. Even stranger was how the moments when he was out of control with Jessica were often just as painful as the one’s with his parents, and yet he doesn't want to murder her. Well, not most of the time. 

 Perhaps it's because she's never lied to him. His parents pretended they felt the real love. They told him he cared even when he wasn't commanding them, even when he couldn't, all the while they tortured him. They were so afraid to face a world where they failed to save their little boy, they plunged needle after needle into spine. That they destroyed him. It didn’t matter what he wanted. 

 Jessica, well, the only person she lies to is herself if she can believe that she doesn’t love him somewhere, deep, deep down. He has his 18 seconds of proof. And even if he didn’t, Jessica is too smart to think he could actually be redeemed without her eventual love and kind understanding. All he has to do is be patient enough for her to realize it. 

 But that might require a show of good faith or two on his part. Get the wheel spinning as it were. 

 “Very well." He straightens his cufflinks before offering his hand. “You talk to me before you act and try not to put yourself in unnecessary danger. And I’ll do the same for any bystanders while we’re hero-ing.” 

She raises an eyebrow (or tries really, she can’t quite manage it; it’s charming) and stares at his open palm. “Fine,” she says, but then instead of taking his head she sucks at her cheeks and spits at his feet. 

 Kilgrave flinches. “Is that some kind of American thing?” 

 “Nope. But it’s the only way I’m ever sealing a deal with you.”

He grins. Sealing the deal. He _likes_ that. Spitting may be uncouth, but, stretching out his neck he hurls a teardrop of saliva into the gutter. "It's like our secret handshake," he says cheerily.

"Holy fuck," she says.

 But when his Aston Martin pulls up, he doesn't even have to open the door. She jumps right in.   


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the end of the chapter a wild plot appears!

 

A day after the train incident Jessica’s realizes that they’ve fallen into a pattern. 

 Not a good pattern, not a bad pattern, just… a routine. Day by day, without her even noticing it, her worst nightmare became mundane. She shouldn't be surprised.  There were routines with him the first time too. 

 This time, her routine starts like this. 

 Jessica wakes up around 2 P.M, slightly, but not extremely hung-over. She takes a quick, cold shower, brushes her teeth for thirty-seconds in a way that doesn’t manage get stench of whatever fancy wine Kilgrave’s stocked the house with completely off her breath. Then she throws on a hoodie over a nondescript T-shirt she bought from Target and wiggles into a  pair of jeans she throws into the washer-dryer every three days.  She hasn’t been back to her apartment yet to get clothes. 

 When she gets back to her bed there is always a white box by her door. Sometimes she opens it, sometimes she lets it be. If she opens it, which she does this morning, she finds the designer approximation of whatever outfit she’s wearing. A real leather jacket, tastefully tailored jeans with a brand name in French, and sturdy leather boots. No heel. 

 At first she used to rip it up, but now she just leaves it be. Anger shows she cares. And she's done giving him that satisfaction. 

 After that she heads downstairs. Kilgrave is surprisingly scarce in the afternoons, but there is always a spread of scones and tea, and fruit sculpted into animals, which looks completely out of place on her beat-up kitchen table. Each day’s display is more extravagant than the last. She wonder’s what’s next, a life-size replica of her face?

 Fuck, she wouldn’t put that past him. 

 Since he’s not there she’s taken to plucking the pineapple nose off of the fruit-carved-penguin, and then going to the fridge to pick out her own yogurt, which she eats half with a spoon and half with her finger while sitting on the couch.

She waits in silence for about thirty minutes, trying to meditate away her anger and pain, by remembering  the look on Hope’s face when she took the abortion pill. The relief she felt from cleansing her body of Kilgrave's control. Jessica wishes there was a pill for whatever he's done to her. What he'll do the world if she lets him. She can't believe she ever thought she could turn him into a hero. He had almost killed fifty people yesterday, and freely admitted he didn't give a shit. Of course there's no point in yelling at him about it. He won't, no,  _can't_  change, and it's hubris for her to think she can control him. 

She knew that the moment they walked off the train platform. The only reason she struck a deal at all was so he wouldn't get suspicious. She needs him to trust her, if he's going to set Hope free. And once that's done, she'll drug him, make him confess and bring him to justice for one of his hundreds of other crimes. Simple. Clean. Easy.

After an hour of silence, she needs a distraction, and turns on the local news to calm herself down, subconsciously still searching the scrawl at the bottom of the screen for tips.  
  
Today the tip is one she already knows.

 It’s her. 

 She drops her spoon. 

 Vertical cell-phone footage captured in the subway station fills the T.V. There’s no sound, and the shaking of the camera is made worse by the fact that it’s zoomed all the way in. But there she is, a sprinting figure in ripped denim and pleather, plunging over the edge of the tracks and toward the fallen train car. Her hand pangs, the cut on her palm still fresh, as she watches herself try and try to lift the train. What had felt like minutes at the time, she now realizes was only about thirty-seconds. Soon the camera’s view is obscured by a herd of commuters throwing themselves into the tracks after her. 

 Then the footage cuts off to an interview of a man in a suit.

  _“It was all her. Watching her. I think that’s her power, more than super-strength or anything like that. She made us believe we could do something, you know? She made us want to help.”_

  _“Are you saying that she mind-controlled you?”_

  _“Maybe, but it wasn’t so much control. It was inspiration.”_

  _“Sounds like a great name for a new super-hero to me. The inspirer.”_

For the first time since she’s arrived thebile burning at the back of Jessica’s throat  feels fresh instead of eight months old. They are pinning Kilgrave’s powers on her. Not that they know it's her. Not yet. But if she's reckless in public again with her powers they will find out her identity. If the whole world thinks that she's the mind-controller, how will she ever prove that it's Kilgrave. 

Her calm shatters.

“Fuck!” She screams as she hurls the remote at the television. The collision is much less satisfying than she would’ve hoped. There's not so much an explosion of glass and plastic as a solitary, wimpy crack. The picture goes out though. Thank fuck.  
  
“And here I thought being an inspiration to the downtrodden is what you wanted?” drawls you-know-who from behind her. “I’m beginning to think you may be impossible to please, Jones.”   
  
 “Did you do this?” she whirls. All hope of maintaining her cool, of not letting him see her sweat has disintegrated within the fiery pulse of her frustration. It beats in her bones like a second pulse.   
  
He's wearing a new suit, a purple so dark it's back, with a white pocket square peeping out of his pocket like a surrender flag. The self-satisfied smirk on his face is anything but innocent though. “Did I tell the news people to air this story?” he sniffs, offended. "No of course not. Truly, think on it, why would Iwant attention?"  
  
Even with the furniture between them, he’s still standing a hair close to her. That seems to be his M.O lately. No attempts at touching, but just invading her personal space, skirting along the edge of it and pressing in, until the parts of her that don’t involve him get smaller and smaller and smaller. But she won't pick a fight about it. At this point, if she gets angry one of two things happen: she hurts him and she feels good for five minutes and then shitty for the rest of the day, because she can still feel his skin touching hers, even if it is her knuckle meeting his face. Or worse, she doesn't hurt him, and stops herself and she touches him again, and he likes that too.  
  
She crosses her arms and says flatly,“I think you’d want for me to go down for Hope’s murder, or at least be able to hold the threat of it over my head."  

 "Jessica!" He presses a hand, right on that little pansy fucking pocket-square. "Really? I saved you from prison once before, let's remember that, shall we? Anyway, even if I did plan this, which I didn't, by the way, no one's accusing you of murder. They're calling you a hero." 

“Nobody stays a hero for long in this fucking town.”

 “We will,” he swears with solemn, hungry eyes. 

“If you commanded everyone to delete their phones, then where did this shit come from?” She's proud that her finger is tense and not trembling as she points at the screen. It helps to think of this as his trial. Every interaction with him is. She has to prove to herself constantly that he is a fucking psychopath, because if she doesn't he will weasel his way out of everything. 

He shrugs, and one finger dragging on the edge of the couch strolls closer to her. “Must’ve missed someone. If you _think,_ you’ll recall that you were skipping out of the subway as fast as your legs could carry you. I barely had time to yell out the command to the crowd, let alone ensure that every last little member of our hero-army heard their orders.” 

 “They are not our hero-army.” 

“Just us then, an army of two?” 

He looks up from the floral pattern of the couch, his hand drawing away from the fabric. Just like the cat, there is something about the way he touches it that is so gentle. Lately, the way he holds things, feels things, is strangely fraught with concentration. She knows he's thinking of her. He always is. 

 Maybe it was a mistake, not pummeling him. It's made him braver. Or desperate. It's hard to tell. Jessica shakes her head, snarling at herself more than him. “We’re not a team.” 

 “Come on, Jessica, stop ignoring reality. Enough of that now,” he purrs. He doesn’t move closer, he must know he doesn’t need to if the soft, self-satisfied smile tickling the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. “You chose to stay here. I didn’t force you. We are a team and you know it.” 

 Still shaking her head, she stumbles to the wall. “No.” 

Now her hand is trembling, and to stop it she presses her palm against her temple. If what he just did was an order -- and it's impossible to tell, sometimes he says statements that no one around him takes as fact, other times he merely asks a sly question and the whole world jumps to its feet -- it feels different than before. Less direct. She has no urge to parrot back "We are a team," like she used to. But she does feel something. 

An uncertainty. 

“Jessica?” he asks curiously. “Are you alright?” 

 Her hand closes, fingernails drawing across her forehead as she forms a fist. “You said you wouldn’t control me, you bastard.” 

 “Control you?” he asks, confused. “What are you talking about?” 

“We are a team,” she spits. “And you know it.” She still can’t meet his eyes. But she's proud of herself for not slamming him into a wall again. If she can control herself, than maybe he can't control her.   


 “Ah, yes, that. Controlling you,” he says breezily, although there's a strange breathless exhilaration hidden in his pauses. “Well, as I said, I’m sorry I forget myself sometimes. Now you feel exactly the way you want to about whatever it is that has you in such a tizzy.” 

 Jessica’s stomach drops out from under her, as she waits for the itching under her skin to go away. But it doesn’t.  “Fuck,” she exhales

 Jessica hears a thump and a vibration against her skin as he leans up against the wall too. No doubt searching for her gaze, trying to get inside of her and pry her thoughts out of her. He’s a fucking thief, and a liar and a murderer and rapist.  Now with her house gone, listing his sins is the only way she stays sane. It’s clearly not working very well. 

 “Jessica,” he breathes her name softly. “I want to hold you. You remember what it used to be like. I want to make you feel better”

 He whole body stiffens. She does remember what it was like to be held by him. The feel of his arms around her, imprisoning her.  The way his hands would run over her body, squeezing, toying, playing, while she couldn’t move at all. 

 If that was all she remembered, maybe she’d be okay. She’d have her pure hatred and she’d wield it like a knife and kill him the moment he gets to close. But that’s not all. 

 There are times she’s never talked about. Not with Trish. Not with her therapist. Not even with herself. Because once she admits those times it all becomes shades of grey instead of black and white. It starts to feel like her fault instead of his. Even though she knows _,_ she _knows,_ that it’s perfectly understandable that she didn’t fight him all the time. How could she have? She lived with him for eight months. Eight months. 24 hours, seven days a week. Spend that much time with someone and you develop routines. Habits.

 There is one habit of his that she refuses to dwell on. Although now both of them leaning against the wall, him using that quiet voice of his, she can’t help but be brought back. 

 It’d happen in the morning. 

 She’d just be waking up and she’d forget where she was, who she was with, and he’d snake his arms around her, whispering, “You love me, Jessica. You love me so much it fills you up. You need me. Nothing feels better to you than my touch.” 

 Her brain, too addled from sleep, wouldn’t be able to fight it, the emotions he wanted her to feel wouldn’t so much push her out, as seep into her soul. With warm skin and greedy hands, she’d nuzzle herself into the crook of his embrace, enjoying his chuckle of gratitude instead of flinching from it. Then she’d press her lips against his ear and rasp dirty little nothings, begging for him to push himself inside of her.

“Tell me where you want me touch you,” he’d command. Only it wouldn’t feel like a command, because she’d want him to know. And then he’d find that perfect place with his tongue or fingers and work with that diligent, single-mindedness of his until she came undone.  
  
After she had finished shaking, his first orders still infecting her heart, making it pound so loud she worried she’d burst, he’d rock her gently against him. Those times he never told her to sleep or to do anything, just whispered again and again, “I love you, Jessica Jones.”  
  
No darling. No sweetie. Just “I love you, Jessica Jones.”

 Those are the mornings she hates herself for the most. 

You shouldn’t be able to want the man who rapes you. Who tortures you. Who tries to erase your personality to make room for the perfect sex doll. You should fight it. Every second. That’s what they say. And if you don’t, then you’re nothing more than a victim.  But right now, Jessica doesn't have time to fight for herself. She's got other people to champion. Save people first, kill the monster second.   
  
So she doesn't throw him against the wall or punch him, or do any of the things that would let him know that she feels anything at all for him. When he sees that he affects her, he wins. She doesn't even address his sick fucking request. Instead, she takes a shaking breath, smooths out her sweaty palms against her worn, tired jeans, pushes away from the wall and looks at him with cold, clear eyes.  “Hope Schlottman. You said you’d release her.”

 To her surprise, he doesn’t miss a beat, but follows her as she strides out of the living room into the sunroom, where there are windows and light. “Said and will. In fact. Here.” He pulls something out of his suit pocket, a photograph. 

 She flinches.

“Don’t be vain. It’s not of you,” he says gently.  
  
 The command has no effect. Probably because Jessica isn't fucking  _vain_ when she's worried about him snapping pervy pics of her. She's outraged and violated, but again she hides it behind her pursed lips.  "Wanna share with the fucking class?" Okay, well she sort of hides it. Her control is a work in progress. But there is progress, if the lack of effect his last command had was anything to go by. 

He rolls his eyes, and flips the picture over, like a magician performing a trick. Except the guy in the photograph isn’t anyone Jessica recognizes. It’s a mug-shot of a tan man with dark hair and a long scar bruising his cheek. 

 “Am I supposed to recognize this asshole?” 

 “This,” Kilgrave says proudly, “is Bernardo Shaw.” He waits, as if that’s supposed to trigger her understanding. 

 She crosses her arms. 

“Don’t keep up with the news, do you? Fine.” He sighs. “Two years ago Bernardo Shaw was tried for the murder of his wife and child. Unfortunately, due to some very fancy footwork by a lawyer who I believe you know — Jerri Hogarth? — he got off.” 

 “The justice system isn’t perfect."

“Clearly,” Kilgrave says dourly. “Because since then Bernardo has risen up through the ranks of one of the drug cartels responsible for human trafficking and worse—” 

 “What does this have to do with Hope?” 

 “Well, if Hope didn’t kill her parents, then someone else did.” Kilgrave waggles the photo, the printer paper of the photograph making a flicking sound. “Bernardo Shaw, is going to be that someone.” 

 

 


End file.
